John's Engagement
by playing-violin-with-sherlock
Summary: Sherlock follows John and his date out one day, intending to see something to laugh at but instead, much to his horror, seeing John proposing to the woman. After an awkward and very strange argument, Sherlock and John are called out on a murder case, which ties strangely in with John's new fiancée... Rated T to be safe. Not (yet!) Johnlock
1. Chapter 1 - Sherlock

**_Sherlock_**

Sherlock heard hushed voices from upstairs in 221B as he stepped through the door, and many years of training made his first instinct to be as quiet as possible. Cat-like, he crept up the stairs, noting and analysing everything in his sight – from the slight scuffmarks John's watch had made as he dragged his hand carelessly up the banister, to the gentle but fresh trace of perfume in the air, a scent that he recognised as one that a woman would wear for a man she loved. This woman had been walking slightly in front of John and to his left, where she would have ended up had he held the door open for her, so she was a date.

Sherlock racked his brains for memory of any girls that John had been recently dating… there had been a new one a year or two ago, and he remembered finding it strange that he hadn't heard of them breaking up, so possibly they _hadn't _broken up, and this was the same girl. He had a vague feeling that her name was Anne, another doctor.

He sniffed the air cautiously again – no traces of alcohol, and barely any of the outside air, but still that strong scent of flowery perfume. They had come straight here upon meeting. If they'd been to a restaurant beforehand or even spent a few hours at her place, the perfume wouldn't be as strong – even so, John had still picked up Anne at her apartment. Sherlock paused just as his foot was about to hit the top step. It also wouldn't be as strong if they hadn't just entered.

But what a time to start a date! Though dark outside, it was barely four thirty, and despite perhaps not having much experience in this particular field, he was quite sure that this was far too early for a date, despite all evidence pointing to it.

He crept to the door, resolving not to enter the apartment but to listen, and decide whether to come back later. The door was closed, but he wasn't going to open it; he'd installed the light himself that made it impossible for the door to be opened without a large and noticeable shadow being cast inside. And the switch that would turn off the light was inside the apartment. Sherlock smiled briefly at the fact that he now had to outsmart himself.

He tapped lightly on the wall that surrounded the door, listening for a hollow noise. There it was, just near the door handle. He'd shot through that part of the wall a month or two ago – completely by accident, of course – and now it was a perfectly convenient listening spot. Pressing his ear against the wall, Sherlock strained to hear what John and Anne were saying inside. But the first thing that he heard was the sound of people coming to 221B's door from inside the apartment.

Not wasting a second, Sherlock spun and pressed himself into the nearest, and thankfully darkest, corner of the hallway. He watched, sufficiently concealed, as the door was opened and a woman, definitely Anne, walked out, with John following a moment later. When John turned to lock the door, his eyes met Sherlock's briefly, possibly drawn to the hall light reflecting in them. Sherlock quietly damned his bright, inquisitive eyes for being so luminous, and arranged his expression into a pleading one; John, though with a thoroughly exasperated look, locked the door and turned back to Anne without mentioning his strange friend's presence. Anne, not noticing anything out of the ordinary, led John with her downstairs. Sherlock heard the downstairs door close after them moments later.

He pondered whether or not to follow them, but his growing respect for John made him decide not to. However, when he left the shadows to enter the apartment, he realised that he didn't have a key. Sherlock cursed softly, remembering the experiment he'd started a few days ago. The key's tip was currently slowly dissolving in a beaker of acid – he'd wanted to know if a key could be converted into a sharp weapon while retaining its original functions. John had the only remaining key, and Sherlock had been relying on the door always being open, or John being around, to get in.

Now there were two options. One was that he could climb into the apartment through the window… but that would be time-wasting, and frankly, much less fun than option two: follow John. His friend might resent him if he found out, but the chances of that were slim, and John always forgave him eventually anyway.

Grinning, Sherlock readjusted his scarf as he set off down the stairs and after John. He wasn't hard to track; he hadn't taken a cab, and after a second of scanning the street with his eagle gaze Sherlock located John's form walking down the street, hand in hand with Anne. Taking up a firm pace a good distance behind them, he analysed the route that they were taking – there were no good restaurants in this direction, and unless they were for some reason returning to Anne's place within fifteen minutes of departing it for John's, they were going to walk down to the park.

How… Sherlock searched his brain for a moment before coming up with the only word that seemed fit to describe it: cute. It was _cute _that he was going for a romantic evening stroll with his girlfriend, and just the sort of thing that John Watson, doctor and master poet, would be expected to do. He fondly reminisced about the hours he had spent laughing at John's loving e-mails to his girlfriends, while John himself, shamefaced, had pretended to watch television, turning as red as his confiscated laptop.

His feet traced the familiar path to the park, following John and his partner. Despite being at least a hundred feet away from them at all times, he never lost sight of them – mostly due to the fact that he towered over the majority of passers-by. In a matter of minutes he was peering around a tree at the park, watching as John sat down with Anne three metres away.

He couldn't hear most of what John was saying, only snippets like, 'All my life…' and 'I didn't think…' Sherlock rolled his eyes, a slight smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. Even more poetry. Maybe it hadn't been worth it to follow them – he should return to the flat, or at least go gather some more information on a case he'd been working on.

He was just getting up when he saw something that almost made his heart stop. He hadn't had that sort of feeling since the time that he'd almost been shot.

John was down on one knee in front of Anne.

People nearby were watching, hugging each other and pointing, smiles all over their faces even though they didn't know John. Sherlock did know John. And he definitely wasn't smiling.

His mind seemed to be working very fast. It was like being back in Baskerville, seeing that dog – only this seemed a lot more frightening than a hundred hellhounds. He could see it happening in front of him, yet he couldn't, he _wouldn't _believe it was there. Not only did he not understand why John was proposing to Anne ('Sentiment,' John would say with a sigh if he were there, only he wasn't there, he was _proposing_), there was also a large part of him that was hurt because John hadn't told him. Sherlock had been feeling that John and he were becoming good friends, and good friends told each other things, didn't they? He hadn't had as close a friend as John before, so he didn't know for sure, but surely the fact that John was getting _engaged _would be something John could have thought to bring up, to any type of friend.

John was still talking in front of him, and now Sherlock didn't need to hear the words; he could easily imagine exactly what was being said.

_'Anne, will you marry me?'_

He couldn't stay there. He had to leave, to get out of here before he did something unreasonable. His sudden movement from behind the tree attracted John's attention. Could he do nothing without John seeing? John's face registered shock, then hurt, as he watched Sherlock's panicked eyes widen before Sherlock himself turned and ran away, back to the apartment.

But first, one stop.


	2. Chapter 2 - John

**_John_**

John tentatively entered the hall from the street. He was still buzzing from the fact that he was now _engaged, _but until Sherlock was happy, John knew he wouldn't be.

Fast violin music jumped down the stairs from the flat above as John climbed them - Vivaldi's _Summer. _One of John's favourite pieces, but Sherlock's music mirrored his thoughts, and this jumpy, erratic song wasn't a good sign.

He had a feeling that the music would stop the moment he entered the apartment, so he paused to savour the last few notes before gently unlocking the door. His feeling had been right – the instant the door was opened the whole building went silent.

Sherlock was facing the window, quickly putting the violin back in its case. The only light in the room was the light from the softly burning fire, and a dim glow from the streetlights outside. It gave the room an ominous feeling, like the walls were closing in on him. And that damned yellow smiley on the wall seemed to be glowing. John closed the door and leant against it, wondering what to say as he watched Sherlock start to throw himself onto the sofa, swing away when he saw that John was next to it, and instead settle into his chair, looking pointedly away from his flatmate.

John swung his arms awkwardly for a moment, deciding against joining Sherlock in the other armchair, and sat on the sofa that Sherlock had avoided.

They sat in silence, unspoken words swarming around the room like an angry storm of bees, until Sherlock cleared his throat and said quietly, 'So… Congratulations.'

John met his eyes for a fraction of a second before they both hurriedly looked away, but in that tiny moment of communication they had said more than they were probably going to get out of each other for the rest of the day.

'Uh, thanks.' They went back to silence. John stared at the back of his friend's head.

'Look, Sherlock-,'

'Interesting business, marriage, isn't it?' Sherlock said quickly, jumping up. John sighed and settled into a more comfortable position – when Sherlock was in a mood like this, it was best to stay out of the way and let him use his energy how he liked. He wished that he could get up and move to his room, in case Sherlock tried to waste his time by shooting at him again, but any movement now would result in all attention fixed on him, and that wasn't what anyone wanted.

Sherlock was pacing up and down the room, twisting something in his pale hands. He couldn't see clearly because of the distance and Sherlock's agitated movements, but John could tell that it was something small, and black.

'Marriage – the formal union of two people, typically as recognized by law, in which they become husband and wife. Or, you could say, a combination of two or more elements – but I think the first one applies here rather more than the first.'

Great. Now he was quoting the English Dictionary.

'You've known this woman for a while, haven't you? Almost as long as we've known each other. Of course I don't remember when you started dating, but it was surely sometime after the time I saved you in the tunnel, yes? You were with Sarah at that time, but obviously it's not still her. I think people should know each other for a long time before getting involved like this, don't you? It's viewed as 'hasty' by some if the relationship has lasted less than a year.'

He was talking very fast, still pacing around the living room.

'When are you planning to have the ceremony? Does she want it soon, or will you wait a few years – no, of course, she won't have told you that yet, but whatever she decides I'd recommend going with it. She's probably been planning her wedding for years. I suppose you'll be inviting me, and maybe Lestrade and Molly, but I'd advise not bringing Mycroft, he's not good with these things.'

Suddenly John noticed something. Despite being in such a frenzied mood, he wasn't trying to deduce John's life story from a strand of his hair, as he usually did at such times; in fact, he was barely looking at him at all.

Something was wrong.

He cleared his throat – 'Sherlock…' – but Sherlock was still talking over him.

'I suppose I should start looking for a new roommate, then. Or maybe I'll just get an animal instead – they're much easier to take care of, and frankly, far quieter. But there aren't many animals I like… maybe a cat. Cats are the only species on this Earth that I haven't had some sort of falling out with yet. Except bees.' He paused briefly. 'I like bees.'

John was utterly perplexed. 'What are you on about?'

'Bees,' Sherlock repeated slowly. 'Bees are nice, there's nothing wrong with bees. They're fascinating creatures, really, almost as intriguing as the human mind -,'

'For Christ's sake, you and your bees!' cried John, finally getting Sherlock to stop rambling and turn his attention to him. 'No, Sherlock, what I meant was why are you talking about finding a new roommate?'

'Obviously you're going to want to move out and live with Anne, aren't you? Or…' For the first time, Sherlock looked slightly worried. 'You aren't planning on having her live here, are you? Because that would be absurd, really, there's not enough space for three of us. You don't even have a room on this floor, and Mrs Hudson-'

'If you would let me get a word in,' John said loudly, causing Sherlock to turn back to him, face once again devoid of all emotion, 'you would know that Anne wanted to rent the flat upstairs, if you didn't mind.'

Sherlock thought about it for a second, and then went back to pacing without answering. John sighed heavily. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing's wrong.' The answer was too quick.

'Come on, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that you're upset by something.'

It was a mark of the strength of Sherlock's emotion that he didn't make a snarky comment about John's 'far from genius' mind.

'Why didn't you tell me before?' Sherlock asked, very quietly.

Oh. John was momentarily put off, but with a physical effort he cleared his mind. 'To be honest, I didn't think you'd care. But if it turned out that you _did _care, I was worried that you'd react badly, and try to put me off.' John surveyed his tall, silent friend apprehensively. 'Clearly, I was wrong.'

Sherlock seemed to struggle with himself for a second; John could see the emotion inside warring with his need to cloak his feelings. Possibly aided by his unstoppable instinct to explain everything, the emotion won. 'Of course I care! You're… you're my only friend.' It was clearly painful to say. 'How can you expect me not to care when my – best friend – decides to get married?'

The day was clearly going to spew strong feelings at him until he cracked. John could recall maybe a couple of times that Sherlock had introduced him as a 'friend', and it had always been followed by John correcting him with 'colleague', but never had Sherlock _ever _said he was his best friend. John wondered just how much of an impression he must have made on Sherlock to get that close to him.

Sherlock was looking at him endearingly, and suddenly John narrowed his eyes.

'Hang on,' he said, a hint of accusation in his voice, 'Are you doing that thing where you act all nice just to get something from us?'

His best friend looked instantly hurt. 'No! Why would you-? Fine, I see, but I'm not doing it now. We've been through so much together, I just thought… but I can understand if you don't feel the same.' He sighed and threw himself back into his chair, hugging his Union Jack pillow. 'I've never had a friend like you before; there must be a reason why.'

John got up and sat in the chair across from Sherlock without missing a beat. He looked at him, but all he could see was Sherlock's dark curls, as his face was buried in the pillow. He wasn't crying, he was just being melodramatic, which John confirmed with a loud 'ahem', and an unsuccessful attempt to peer at the detective's face.

'Look, Sherlock, you're great when you're not being such an arrogant idiot-,' here John could imagine the corner of Sherlock's mouth ghosting up in a smile, 'but you seriously don't strike me as somebody who'd care in the slightest about whether I was engaged or not – you don't even notice when I go on holiday, despite being apparently one of the most perceptive people in the world.' John paused, considering, as Sherlock slowly looked up at him, his bright eyes glinting strangely in the firelight. 'No, wait, you do care if I'm going out with people – you like to laugh at what I do with them.'

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes again.

'Hang on,' John said suddenly. 'That was why you were following me, wasn't it? You wanted to laugh at me.'

There was silence from the opposite chair. John rolled his eyes and looked calmly into the fire, before he heard a voice whisper, 'I'm sure you can see that it didn't quite go according to plan.'

John opened his mouth, and then closed it again. How did you reply when Sherlock Holmes said something like that?

'Uh – I – um, so, is there, um, anything else going on? Any… cases?' John asked randomly, attempting to lighten the mood in the room.

Sherlock jumped up. 'No, but there is something that I wanted to tell you.'

'O…kay…' John said slowly – Sherlock was looking hyper again. 'Like what?'

'Well, after watching you propose I realised that there was a strong chance that I would never be in that situation. I'm quite sure that nobody will ever love me, and I don't think I will ever love anyone – what?' He broke off, annoyed, as John sniggered.

'Look in the mirror for once, will you?' John asked.

Sherlock glanced into the mirror hanging on the wall opposite him. 'John, we've been over this – it's my face.'

'Once again, you see, but you do not observe,' John said, mimicking Sherlock's attitude, right down to his smooth purr of a voice, so perfectly that Sherlock looked back at him, grinning. 'You know what – never mind.' Sherlock's grin turned into a frown, as he turned curiously back to his own reflection. 'The point is, the only thing stopping you is you.'

Sherlock was still examining his reflected image, his head tilted to the side, but a mischievous light seemed to come into his eyes as he said, 'That's right. I am.'

John started to reply when Sherlock added, 'But that won't be a problem, not anymore.'

Sherlock would have laughed at John's expression had he not been looking away – the surprise on it was almost comical. It took a few blinks for John to manage, 'You - wha-?'

'You know, of course, that I consider myself married to my work. But – recent events – made me wonder if that was the right path to take.' Here he paused, and fished the little black box out of his pocket to play absentmindedly with it in his hands again.

'So… you've divorced yourself from feelings, and now you want to do the same with your work.'

Sherlock nodded at John's reasoning. 'You could say that, yes.'

'And then what?' John was eyeing that box apprehensively. He had a feeling that Sherlock hadn't gone straight back to the flat after seeing John propose.

'And then, of course, get married again. How could you expect anything else from me?' Sherlock smirked.

'To who?'

'Myself, of course,' he said, with a perfectly straight face. 'I'm at that stage in my relationship where I feel that this is the right way to go.'

John couldn't even speak.

'This isn't a ring or anything,' he added, holding up the box. 'I just stopped by Mycroft's to get his signature, saying that I could do this. I put it in the box for effect – obviously your mind would jump to conclusions after your recent proposal.'

Sherlock gave him a cynical grin and threw him the box.

'Since I witnessed your proposal, I thought it only fair for you to watch mine.'

He mutely opened the box, still staring at Sherlock as the man himself turned back to the mirror. He barely had time to glance at its contents – a small folded piece of paper, containing a short printed statement and an elaborate signature – before Sherlock started to talk again. But he wasn't even talking to John – he was having a conversation with his reflection. It went like this:

'So, you're looking nice today.'

'Why thank you, my friend. So are you.'

'I'm glad you think so. Anyway, I have a question for you.'

'A question! How impossibly exciting! What could it be?'

'Will you marry me?'

'Oh my goodness!' Sherlock squealed and clasped his hands together. 'How unexpected! Of course I shall!'

'Oh thank you! You've made me the happiest man in the world!' He smiled widely. 'I can't think of who I will tell first – but certainly not my friends, as friends apparently don't tell each other anything.'

With that dramatic ending, Sherlock made to storm off into his room, but John had been expecting such a finale, and jumped up to intercept him. Sherlock stared down at him with ice in his pale eyes, but John didn't flinch.

'I have three things to say to you, Sherlock. First, please never _ever _do that again. It has scarred me for life, and I don't think it says good things about your mental stability, either.' Sherlock huffed and moved his weight defiantly to his back leg. 'Secondly, this doesn't help with anything. Look, I'm sorry if you're offended because I didn't tell you, but I'm seriously trying to not even think of how you might have acted if you had known beforehand.' John stopped, images of Sherlock hiding his ring – sending Anne off to America – even having John arrested – flashing horrifyingly through his mind.

Sherlock waited for a few seconds, arms tightly crossed, before asking stiffly asking, 'And thirdly?'

'Congratulations on your engagement,' John growled, and left without another word.


	3. Chapter 3 - Sherlock

**_Sherlock_**

Sherlock bared his teeth at the ringing phone. Even an hour after he had heard the door slam from upstairs in John's room, he was still seething after their fight, and the selfish part of him was hoping that John was, too.

The phone was on the table, a mere metre away from him, but he couldn't be bothered enough to reach over and get it. It persisted to ring, on and on, until he snapped, and swiped it towards him with a fast, jagged movement.

It was Lestrade. He almost broke the phone with the force with which he punched the screen to accept it. 'What?' he snarled with nothing short of pure venom in his voice.

'Whoa, bad time?' Lestrade asked uncertainly. Sherlock knew that he must sound incredibly angry for Lestrade to reply with that tone – usually he would have just laughed at him.

He took a few deep breaths to calm himself before speaking again. 'I'm fine. What is it you want?' he asked, in what he viewed as a more pleasant manner.

'We've got a case for you, if you want to help out.' Lestrade still sounded hesitant.

Sherlock barely wasted a second in answering. 'I'll be there.' He would be ready to do anything to get himself out of this flat.

He listened to the address and details that Lestrade gave him, nodding even though the DI couldn't see it, because he was too lazy to do anything else. The case was a murder. The classic kind, too, the one that never failed to stump the police force – all doors and windows locked, no signs of struggle, a single wound. But wait, this one was special, because the wound wasn't in a place that would usually cause death. And there was barely any blood around the body. Sherlock pondered in silence as the case was described to him, eyes half-closed, until Lestrade paused and added something that jolted him out of his reverie.

'We could really use John's help, too.'

Something twisted painfully inside him at the mention of John's name, and his voice came out much more slowly than before as he replied, 'I… don't think he'll want to…'

'I'll ask him, okay?' Lestrade hung up, unaware of the horrified look that Sherlock was giving the phone.

He closed his eyes in shame and waited, listening. Upstairs, the phone rang. John answered more promptly than Sherlock had, sounding far less annoyed than Sherlock had, too. Their conversation was short, and a few seconds later he heard the door open and John come slowly down the stairs.

Sherlock sprang up to put on his scarf and coat before John came in to grab his. He was waiting quietly by the door when it opened and John came in. Neither was sure whether or not to break the heavy silence, and so neither did.

The cab ride to the crime scene seemed far longer than the few minutes that it really took, and the two of them only spoke twice in total, but not even to each other; Sherlock gave the cabbie the address, and John thanked him after they had gotten out.

The street outside the apartment was swarming with policemen and women, but Sherlock cut through the middle of them with little notice of the half-protests he left in his wake. Typically, John did his apologies for him, although they were a lot less in number than was usual.

Lestrade was waiting for them in the hallway, in front of an elevator with its doors opened. One glance at the DI's face told Sherlock that Lestrade had already half-figured out what was going on, which shortened his temper again. 'Where is the body?' he asked.

'It's, uh, just up here-,' Lestrade began, but Sherlock swept past him and into the lift before he finished. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John hesitate before trading a glance with Lestrade and then following him into the lift.

The doors closed, and there was something far more solid than Lestrade between John and Sherlock. Nobody spoke as they ascended, not even Lestrade, who was prone to attempting awkward conversation at the worst of times. Sherlock felt some sort of invisible pressure upon him, like the lift was shrinking, and almost ran out of the doors when they opened.

'So… there she is,' Lestrade said, after looking curiously between two men opposite him, who were staring determinedly away from each other. Sherlock followed Lestrade into a spacious living-room, where a body was lying on the sofa.

'You haven't moved her, did you?' Sherlock asked, moving closer to the woman's body.

'No,' was the reply. 'She was like that when we found her. But there's blood in the bathroom.'

'That's of no use to me.' Sherlock glanced quickly around the room, making note of and assessing everything in it. The place was incredibly tidy, with all furniture at perfect right-angles and books stacked neatly in the large bookshelf that covered two-thirds of the side wall. There were many gift-type objects in the room, but none of them had even a remote resemblance to each other; the woman had had quite a steady stream of boyfriends, but had been single for at least a few weeks now, judging by her lack of make-up and sloppy dress. Left-handed – no, right-handed, that mug on the table – no, definitely left-handed, the placement of the TV remote said so – fine, the layout of her cupboards said maybe she was ambidextrous. Lestrade, telling him details about the woman that he didn't need to know. Tasteful yet relatively cheap furniture, regardless of the expensive apartment – despite appearing to keep everything together she was unorganized at heart, but dedicated to her job as a… a high-up surgeon, at the local hospital. She'd moved in recently, too. An officer or two hung around the sides of the room, watching him. And John, standing there far more quietly than he usually did, looking angry and wounded even as he studied the body.

'Where's the wound?' Sherlock asked abruptly, tearing his eyes away from his flatmate and stopping Lestrade mid-sentence. He didn't even look surprised, just showed him the woman's palm, in which a deep gash had been made.

Lestrade had been right – that wound wasn't in a place that should have caused death, unless left untreated for a long time, even though that was the only sign of how she had died. But there was still no blood.

'She wasn't attacked here.' Sherlock moved to look around the apartment more closely. Thermostat: 20 degrees, even though it was spring. Lots of healthy snacks, and three full jugs of water, were in the fridge. Sherlock glanced at the sink – at least ten glasses were there, recently used, and her cupboards were home to many more.

'What?' Lestrade asked incredulously, but he was already moving back to the body, taking off her shoes. Thick socks, to keep feet warm.

'Not. Attacked. Here,' Sherlock repeated slowly as he glanced up, his searching eyes narrowing as Lestrade stepped into their way. 'But she did die here, if that's any help.'

'What the bloody hell are you on about, Sherlock?' he asked.

'That wound was made somewhere else, not in this building, and she came back here to try to treat herself, because she was a doctor and that's what they do, even though it's stupid and they should get someone else to help them.'

Sherlock ignored the way John shifted as he said that. He also ignored the disgusted expression Lestrade's face took after Sherlock lifted up the dead woman's hand and sniffed the wound after examining the nails, before peeling back her sleeve to look at her arm. He smirked and leant back, satisfied.

'But it was too late, because she has very poor circulation – possibly even anaemia – and though she managed to minimalize the blood loss before getting to the building, it was still too much for her body to cope with.' Here he paused to fish out his phone and open the maps app. 'She wouldn't have taken a cab. When you're wounded like this your basic instincts kick in, and being so disorganized she wouldn't have thought of it in time, even though she was practically fainting when she came in,' Sherlock added, bending and examining the floor. 'But there was someone here…' he muttered.

Lestrade cut him off. 'Disorganized? Sherlock, look at this place.'

'I know, such a muddle, isn't it? Look at the haphazard way in which that plate has been left in the sink – it's barely parallel to the rest of the dishes.' He studied the area around them on the map. 'Anyway, a cab driver would have wanted to take her to the hospital. There are plenty around, so she intended not to take a cab – or maybe, she wanted to avoid the hospital. So if she didn't take a cab, the place that she was hurt would be relatively near – in fact, it was probably here,' Sherlock said, showing them a block of abandoned warehouses that he had just located, known to house many murders and attacks of this sort, marked with a bright red pin on his phone.

Deducing things wasn't half as fun when John didn't praise him afterwards.

'How can you be so sure?' Lestrade asked incredulously. 'Maybe -,'

'What, someone came to her apartment, cut her hand, waited for her to bleed herself to death, cleaned up afterwards and locked her in?'

There was a pause. 'Why wouldn't she have called for help?'

'She tried to.' Sherlock leaned over the body, reached into the gap between the cushions and pulled out a phone. Its screen was smashed, but after carefully unlocking it, the dial pad came up on the screen. The emergency number had been typed in, but the bottom of the screen was too cracked to reach 'Dial'.

'But – but why not use the landline?'

'There isn't one. She'd just moved in.' Sherlock was getting frustrated again. Why wasn't Lestrade getting it? What were those officers whispering to each other? Why didn't John say _anything_?

'How did you know about the circulation thing?'

'Thermostat. Water. _Socks._' Sherlock hissed through his teeth. 'Whoever wounded this woman knew her; otherwise they would have stabbed her somewhere more likely to cause death. They would have known that she would try to manage herself, thinking it a non-deadly wound, would have known that she would rather walk and further endanger herself than take a cab, would have known that her body would tire quickly.' They would also no longer be at those warehouses.

'They were here too. They must have – what?' he snapped. Lestrade was shaking his head.

'Sherlock, look at this place – it's huge! There are cameras all over, and nobody came here with her.'

Sherlock stopped for a millisecond, taking that in, and then said, 'Well, they must have missed something. There was definitely someone with her.'

Lestrade didn't get it. He refused to believe anything that he couldn't understand, and since for some unfathomable reason he couldn't see the links that Sherlock was so carefully trying to lay in front of him, he was already shaking his head. This wasn't helping his mood at all.

John got it, though. Sherlock could see it in those eyes that refused to meet his own. Nothing was going right today, and though he should have felt sorry for John, having to spend his first few hours as an engaged man with a resentful flatmate at a crime scene in London, the selfish part of him stopped him from caring, and instead made him increasingly bad-tempered. The slightest provocation could make him snap, and nobody would want that.

Sherlock tried to calm himself down, but unfortunately, before he could do so, something could come. Sherlock's eyes narrowed into slits of pure murderous ice, even as Lestrade's eyes widened in shock, as Anderson's voice sounded from behind them.

'Oh, it's you. Well, we found something that you might-,'

Sherlock spun around and _snarled. _Actually snarled, like an animal, teeth bared and eyes fixed on Anderson, who backed away fast.

Sherlock hadn't intended to react like that – he'd meant to snarl _words, _and in fact, it had scared him almost as much as everyone else – but it had had the desired effect. However, there was nothing to do now except to storm out of the suddenly completely silent room, shoving Anderson aside as hard as possible, without drastically injuring him, as he left.


	4. Chapter 4 - John

**_John_**

The room was silent after Sherlock had left. Nobody spoke, but Anderson and Lestrade were definitely staring at John, even though he was carefully still pretending to examine the body. Finally, he couldn't help it, and looked up. Cleared his throat. 'Yes?'

'What's going on?' Lestrade cried.

'Ah, well, um, I'm engaged,' John informed him.

'And Sherlock is acting like the biggest drama queen because of that? That's so unlike him,' Anderson said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

'Well, he followed me and saw it happen before I had a chance to tell him – but in my defence, I hadn't told anyone yet, not even Harry, and he would have been the first to know.'

'Aaw, that's sweet,' Anderson sneered, turning on his heel and leaving the apartment. John looked after him questioningly, and realised that he was quite shaken by Sherlock's behaviour, and so naturally was taking it out on John.

John sighed. The worst always did seem to come to him, because people were generally too scared to stand up to Sherlock. Funnily enough, until now, he'd never even minded, not even when it came to near-death situations. There was definitely something wrong with him.

'You're going to have to sort that out. You're the only one who can reason with him,' Lestrade said.

'I wouldn't think so now,' John said bitterly, grabbing his coat as he started to follow Anderson out of the door. 'He's engaged, too.'

Lestrade almost choked. 'He _what? _To who?'

'Himself,' John called over his shoulder. Behind him, he heard Lestrade splutter, 'He – oh, well, of course that makes sense -,' before the lift doors closed around him.

It wasn't hard to find the way Sherlock had gone – people were still staring off after him angrily, a few of them actually rubbing their arms from where he had barged past too strongly. John jogged until he had caught sight of the tall figure clad in a long coat, and then he slowed down, unsure of how Sherlock might react to _him _should he disturb him.

So he followed him, into the dark and cold of the night. As he walked, he tried to think of his engagement, but his thoughts kept clouding with Sherlock. It was just like Sherlock to twist everything to himself. He should be _happy _with the thought of getting married, but all he could see was Sherlock's face from behind the tree when he had seen John down on one knee – anger, betrayal and hurt the predominant emotions on his face before he had turned and ran. And that made John sad, and also confused as to why Sherlock was reacting like this. He tried to remember the last time that they'd had a fight like this – it had been after Sherlock had come back from faking his death, but even that hadn't lasted as long as this had, as they had been both so relieved to see each other. That had been a few months ago, and the only major fight they'd ever had – until now.

John wandered miserably, thinking of dark things as he followed Sherlock, for at least four blocks until Sherlock inexplicably disappeared from view. Confused, John went to the spot where he had seen him last, looking carefully around for possible open drain holes or overhanging ladders, and was about to give up and go home (admittedly only after looking for about ten seconds; he was tired, and his temper was short) when he was pulled to the side into an alleyway he hadn't seen before.

His army training kicked in, and he turned around and slammed his assailant into the wall. Before he could do anything to keep him there, he was pushed away, but with a lot less force than he would have usually expected. It didn't bother him too much though, as this person was clearly unwilling to wound for some reason, and that wasn't exactly a problem for John. He swung a punch at his attacker's head, who ducked, caught his wrist and swung him against the wall in one blindingly fast and smooth move. Before John could retaliate he found that he was being pinned against the wall by his shoulders, and the man was too close for him to kick. He didn't struggle, as he knew not to waste his energy, and so started to plot a quick getaway if this man made a wrong move.

So John was surprised when the man leaned in and whispered, in a very familiar voice, 'Be quiet, we're being followed.'

'Sherlock!' John started to hiss, but a hand was clapped over his mouth before he could voice what was in his mind – just as well, as what he was thinking surely would not bode well with Sherlock, and he wasn't in the best position for getting Sherlock angrier.

Sherlock's eyes glittered briefly in the dim streetlight, but he said nothing and pulled them deeper into the shadows as they heard footsteps come up to the alley where they were hiding. They paused, and a dark shadow could be seen as the person paused, glanced briefly into the darkness, and then went on their way.

Sherlock waited for quite a bit longer than necessary before allowing John to jerk himself free, possibly foreseeing and preparing for the hit that John immediately attempted to take to his side. He deftly intercepted the blow, and wrapped his arms around John before he could move again. John did struggle this time, because he knew that he couldn't count on Sherlock accidentally letting him go, but Sherlock only gripped him tighter.

'John-,' he said, pain clear in his voice, and that was when John stopped fighting, because the only time that Sherlock had sounded like that before was in the pool, when he had thought that John was going to die.

They stood in silence for a moment, before they simultaneously realised that what they were actually doing was hugging each other, and stepped back. John cleared his throat. 'What?' The response came out sharper than he had intended, so it was only natural for him to see Sherlock narrow his eyes immediately and open his mouth.

'No, I mean – just, please don't do that again,' John amended. Sherlock ducked his head a little guiltily in agreement, and they looked at each other before John asked 'Who was that?'

Clearly glad to change the subject, Sherlock replied, 'I've got a few ideas.'

Knowing better than to try to get Sherlock to expand on that answer, John instead asked, 'Know why they're following us?'

Sherlock gave him a slant-eyed look. 'I've got a few ideas.'

Of course he'd still be holding a grudge. John blew air impatiently out through his nose. 'Care to venture a few?'

'Not particularly.'

'Of course you don't!' John snapped. 'Sherlock bloody Holmes, strutting around saying he knows everything but not actually _proving _it until the end -,'

'John – _John!_' Sherlock hissed. 'I mean not while that person is still nearby.'

There was a brief but very awkward pause. 'Oh,' John said quietly.

'Okay, so – okay. Um, do you want to go back to the flat?' Sherlock asked hesitantly.

'Yeah, sure.' John had a feeling that there was going to be a _lot_ of talking tonight.

They were back in 221B within fifteen minutes. Sherlock settled into his chair by the fire he'd just lit while John bustled around making tea and cursing whenever he found one of Sherlock's messier experiments scattered around the cupboards.

Finally they were both sitting quietly in front of the fire, gazing into it and blowing on their mugs. Sherlock spoke first.

'I wish to apologize for any concern I may have inflicted upon you with my… earlier behaviour.' John snorted quietly but said nothing. 'I would like you to know that I have broken off the engagement.'

John couldn't help himself. 'How's your ex taking it?'

Sherlock smirked. 'Overreacting, as always.'

John laughed. This was good, this felt normal. For some reason neither of them were acting as though only an hour previously they'd been seething at each other.

Sherlock grinned in reply, and then asked, more hesitantly, 'And… you and your, um –,'

'Anne?' John sighed. 'I probably shouldn't have run off on her. Oh, God, I haven't even called her, have I?' Had she even said yes before he'd left? He honestly couldn't remember.

'In hindsight, perhaps I shouldn't have made such a fuss.' John made no reply, but what he was thinking was probably clear. 'I'm sorry.'

Though slightly – well, very – taken aback by Sherlock's apology (he didn't normally say sorry for anything he did), John wasted no time in replying, 'That's alright. I'm sorry for not telling you.'

Sherlock gave a rueful grin. 'It was probably for the best. God knows what I might have done if I had known beforehand.'

'I have to say that the thought did occur to me,' John laughed.

They grinned, and then bobbed their heads at each other in the universal sign for '_so we're okay, then.'_

John cleared his throat and rose, saying as he did, 'I'm off. Don't worry about explaining that thing. I'm going to need to check on Anne.'

Sherlock bade him goodnight, and stayed in the living room for a long while, just staring into the fire. As much as he tried to think about the case, other thoughts seemed to keep jumping into his mind, never taking discernible shapes but always strangely familiar. He'd never been this distracted before, and at two in the morning finally sighed, gave up, and rose to go to bed.

'_Of course!'_

John started quickly awake at the shout that came from down in Sherlock's room. He glanced blearily at the clock on the shelf – 3:30am. He groaned and turned over into the pillow as feet came running up the stairs, and Sherlock burst into his room, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

'Get up, John, we need to go to that apartment again.'

John mumbled something along the lines of, 'Mmphyougowithoutme.'

'No, John, I _need _you there.' Sherlock paused, and John turned slightly to hike an eyebrow at him. '_Please.'_

'No.' John closed his eyes again. Without warning, he felt Sherlock jump on top of him. He gave a strangled yell and tried to hit him off, but to no avail, so he tried to burrow away from him instead. Sherlock caught him, and after a brief scuffle dragged them both off of the bed to lie tangled in a heap of blankets on the floor. That godforsaken man was _strong_.

'Get up get up get _up,' _Sherlock whined, shaking him like a petulant child until John growled, 'Fine,' and jumped up. He was very aware of the fact that Sherlock was probably more than capable of physically dragging him down the stairs.

In a few minutes he was dressed and ready, and he plodded downstairs to find Sherlock pacing in the living room. 'This had better be good, and you'd better buy me coffee or something.' John yawned widely.

'Yes, yes, of course,' Sherlock said impatiently. 'Now can we go?'

'Alright, alright,' John said, putting his hands up. Then he narrowed his eyes. 'Why aren't you changed?'

Sherlock looked down at himself, still wearing just pyjamas and a dressing gown. 'I think the _real _question here is; why are you?'

'Because – because you're not supposed to go out in pyjamas!' John spluttered. 'It's not right!'

'There's no law against it,' Sherlock frowned.

'But it's just -,' John tried to think of word to explain just how much his blatantly British mind-set was shuddering at the thought of walking around with someone wearing _pyjamas_, in _public._ 'What would your brother say?'

'Oh, John, do you really think that I'll be going out like this?' Sherlock sighed.

'Says the man who walked into Buckingham Palace wrapped in a sheet,' John muttered.

'No, no no no,' Sherlock assured him. John started to sigh in relief. 'I'll be wearing my scarf too, of course.


	5. Chapter 5 - Sherlock

**_Sherlock_**

They ended up back at the crime scene at around quarter to four. John had managed to convince him to wear a coat over his pyjamas, after making various threats including throwing out his chemicals and burning his violin music. They both knew that John would never have actually done any of those things, but Sherlock had decided to humour him. And besides, it was cold.

There were still a few officers hanging around outside. Lestrade was sitting in the doorway waiting for them, rubbing his head with the heel of his hand and clearly regretting answering the rude texts that Sherlock had sent him. He did brighten up when he saw that Sherlock and John weren't fighting any more.

'Alright, you two?' he grinned. 'Back on track?'

Sherlock gave him a wordless glare as he swept past. Lestrade jogged to catch up. 'Anderson owes me a fiver then.'

'I'm glad you're making money off him, it's the only useful thing he seems to do,' Sherlock muttered as they stepped back into the lift. He didn't particularly want to ask what Anderson had thought they'd have done otherwise.

'I've got the camera recordings, like you asked, and I'm not going to ask why you need them here rather than at the station. I do have one question though,' Lestrade added as the lift doors closed.

Sherlock regarded him imperiously. 'Yes?'

'Why the bloody hell are you in your pyjamas?'

Sherlock sniffed, holding back a smirk. 'Of course I'm in pyjamas, it's barely four in the morning.'

He enjoyed the incensed look that Lestrade gave him. 'We _know, _Sherlock, you dragged us all out of bed for this!'

'He actually did drag me out of bed. It was quite alarming,' John remarked from behind him.

'Sherlock, you shouldn't do that!' Lestrade scolded him.

'He wasn't getting up,' Sherlock muttered.

'That's still no excuse!' Lestrade said. 'People need their space!'

'Then _why,' _Sherlock asked, 'were elevators invented?'

John snorted with laughter, and after a while, Lestrade, and finally Sherlock joined in.

A bleary-eyed officer eyed the three of them with distaste as they entered the otherwise silent apartment. The body was no longer there, and Sherlock made to sit on the sofa, before he caught John's stony glare and quickly moved to one of the armchairs. The other two sat around him, Lestrade handing Sherlock the laptop with the camera recordings of the night before. Before he played the clips he glanced up, looking for cameras.

'No cameras in here?' he asked incredulously.

'One by the door, but that's it in the living room,' Lestrade answered. 'There are twelve cameras around the apartment, including one in the corridor that leads to the bathroom where the blood is.'

'Yes, I, er… I'm going to need to look at that,' Sherlock admitted. Lestrade's eyebrows rose slightly, triumphantly. 'Of course.'

The recordings that he needed to see were short, and thankfully easy to find. He watched the woman stagger in, clutching her hand and looking fearfully behind her. He switched to the hallway camera. The bathroom door was open, and blocked a large portion of the screen, which was annoying, but he dismissed it and watched as she stumbled to the bathroom, only to re-emerge a minute later looking far worse. Sherlock watched as with trembling fingers she took her phone from her pocket, and then dropped it onto the sofa to look for another phone. For some reason she looked down the hallway to where the bathroom was, and as her back was to the camera Sherlock couldn't see her face.

He paused the video and looked up. 'John, will you go down that hallway?'

John looked at him, saw the 'please' in his eyes that he was unwilling to say in front of Lestrade, sighed, and stood up. 'To – where, exactly?'

'Just in front of the bathroom door is fine,' he replied. 'Lestrade, can I switch this video to live?' he asked as John walked away.

'Uh – yeah,' Lestrade replied, and hesitated before typing in a few incredibly obvious passwords without bothering to attempt to hide them from Sherlock's view. 'Do you think someone came in with her? Because that camera shows the door, and she was the only person in this apartment.'

'We'll see,' Sherlock replied distractedly. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

'OK, John,' he called as soon as he could see the live recording of John from the camera in the hall. 'That's the bathroom door, yes?'

'I think so -,' John replied, swinging the door open to check, and as he did so Sherlock cried, 'Wait! Hold the door open.'

'Like… this?' Sherlock watched John open the door halfway and look expectantly into the camera.

'No, so that it's perpendicular to the wall.' When opened like that, the door swung outwards into the hallway blocked the camera's view of most of the hallway – including one of the other doors in it.

'I don't see why you can't be the one swinging doors around,' John grumbled. Sherlock ignored Lestrade's smirk as he leaned in towards the screen. 'Because, John, I need to see these camera recordings. Any windows in there?'

'They're on a _laptop_ for Christ's sake, Sherlock, you can walk around with them! And no.'

'What was that door to your left?' Sherlock asked. Even from the fuzzy footage he could make out John's triumphant 'ha-I-won' grin.

'It's the bedroom – her bedroom, from the looks of it,' he replied, pushing the door open

'Windows?'

'Sherlock, there was nobody there, the cameras would have caught them!' Lestrade sighed.

'No, no windows… oh, hang on,' John said, disappearing into the room. 'Well, there's a skylight.'

Sherlock placed his fingertips together and leant his chin on the arch they created. 'Okay, what I want you to do now is try to walk from the bedroom to the bathroom without being seen by the camera.'

A few seconds later John replied, 'Done.' Lestrade raised his eyebrows. They hadn't seen any movement on the monitor at all.

'Was it hard?'

'No, it was really easy.'

'And why was that?'

'Because the bathroom door blocks the camera.'

Sherlock smirked in satisfaction. 'Good.' He snapped the laptop shut and walked into the bathroom. 'Do these stains match her DNA?' he asked, surveying the room. Everything was organized neatly into cupboards, with only a toothbrush and toothpaste on the sink. The sink itself was wide, well-designed, and stained with blood on the front and basin. Some of the stains reached the floor.

'Most do… but one of them doesn't,' Lestrade said, pointing to a small one at the front of the basin.

'Excellent. I'll need you to try to identify who that might have belonged to. And I want a list of people that she's been contacting recently, too.' Sherlock said as he swept out of the room.

'Yes, _sir,'_ Lestrade muttered as he followed, but Sherlock pretended not to notice.

He entered the room that John had been in earlier. It was definitely her main bedroom, if the amount of small ornaments was anything to go by. The skylight was large and directly above the soft queen-size bed – if he had lain down in it and looked directly up, he would be able to see the sky.

He jumped onto the bed – ignoring the 'tsks' that it provoked from both John and Lestrade for having his shoes still on – and inspected the skylight. It opened, wide enough for a man to fit through, and from standing on the bed he was able to easily pull himself through and onto the roof. He stuck his head back into the room and grinned.

'John, come up please. You too, Lestrade.' Barely registering the identical sighs that the two men emitted (they were acting a lot like ill-tempered parents) he spun around to look at the rooftop. It was wide and flat, with direct connections to buildings on two sides and a low building close enough to jump onto at the back.

The front of the building faced a main road.

He heard the sounds of John pulling himself up behind him as he slowly walked up to the front of the building, stopping with his toes on the edge, looking onto the road below. It was high, very high, and looking down onto the pavement below brought back painful memories.

He blinked, breathing hard, and took a step back away from the edge. As he tried to set his mind back to the case, and far away from that horrible day, he heard John walking up behind him.

His friend stopped beside him, their arms touching, letting Sherlock know that he would always be there, that solid, warm presence at his side. They'd never quite agreed which of them had been more hurt by Sherlock's fake suicide – Sherlock himself, knowing that his friend was in pain and yet having to stay back and watch from afar; or John, wondering if somehow he had caused his 'suicide' and never expecting an answer.

Their eyes met as Sherlock turned to walk back along the roof, and only the sounds of Lestrade noisily climbing up caused him to break his gaze. 'Looks like a nice spot to get in from, yes?' he called, striding forward and trying not to think about John's expression when he'd looked at him. There'd been pain in those warm eyes, and worry, constant worry, and a little bit of something else that he was strangely unfamiliar with. But he was almost certain that he'd looked exactly the same.

Lestrade, oblivious to what had just passed between the two men opposite him, looked around saying, 'Yeah, pretty good. But where did he come from?'

'Just over there, I think,' Sherlock said, pointing east and shading his eyes against the rising sun in that direction. 'That's where those warehouses are, and unless I'm very much mistaken there's an easy path to the building's roof from here, and a way to get in.' He looked at John and grinned, gesturing into the sunlight. 'Shall we?'


End file.
